Out of The Dead Land
by Cicadatra
Summary: Harry and Severus apparate to Hogwarts and end up someplace else. Someplace that doesn't quite exist. Trapped in a strange, half-formed landscape, their only way home is by answering an impossible question ... and their only guide is also their captor.
1. April is the cruelest month

**Author's Note: **

First of all, Harry Potter doesn't belong to me, nor does T.S. Eliot's _The Waste Land,_ and I'm not making a profit off of either. Secondly, I extend my earnest gratitude to my betta, Amanda. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

* * *

_Out of The Dead Land_

**One**

When Severus went to retrieve Harry Potter from his relatives, the night was hot and clinging. The houses on Privet Drive stood like quiescent soldiers in their uniform rows, lawns strictly controlled and gardens manicured with precise discipline. It was something of a surprise to hear all of the typical night-sounds of a muggle residential street: traffic from a distant highway, wind through the leaves of pathetic plant life, and cricket song. It was also a surprise that Privet Drive would tolerate chaos of any kind, even if it should come in the guise of a six-legged arthropod. To keep his irritation in check Severus sped up, focusing more intently than necessary on the numbered placards nailed to each mailbox. He scowled at number 16 so hard that it probably would have melted to slag had it been a metal with a slightly lower melting point.

There were others who might have come to fetch Potter, who had been available even. Albus certainly knew how he felt about the boy … it wasn't as if he had been subtle about it. At first Severus had wondered if he was being punished for baiting Arthur Weasley the last time the Order convened. Then he caught the look in the old man's eye (_that _look). So Albus had handed down his orders, popped a lemon drop into his mouth, and Severus was stalking his way down Privet Drive fifteen minutes later.

Number 14. Number 12. Number 10.

Severus didn't bother concealing his presence on the street, considering it an effort that wasn't worth the bother anymore. This would be the last time Potter saw his muggle relatives for a long while (a time likely measured in years as opposed to months), due to some mysterious edict of the Dumbledorian variety. Next time Potter saw his relatives the war would likely be over—whether he survived long enough to return was another matter entirely.

Number 8. Number 6.

The headmaster only said to hurry along, and Severus assumed that the brat's cover had been blown, that Potter was about to be discovered or that the blood wards were failing. He didn't like assuming. Assuming was often the prelude to death in times like these, but when the old headmaster had that particular look to him (if it were a potion it would be one part smugness, one part amusement, two parts triumph, and four parts benevolent manipulation) there was no point in asking questions because those would likely earn you another cup of too-sweet tea and a second round of circuitous conversation.

Number 4. Severus turned sharply and angled up the front walk towards the door.

If the neighborhood was under surveillance it would be difficult to leave without being seen by anyone, especially since the wards that protected the house would fall as soon as Potter passed beyond their reach. And then his loyalty would be questioned, tested. Voldemort could subject him to Veritaserum, or instruct him to kill someone close to Albus, up to and including Albus himself. The old fool could lose his spy, Severus could lose his life … what _was _the man thinking? Perhaps, then, it wasn't an immediate threat. Perhaps the wards would simply be weakened in a few days when the boy came of age and Albus intended to remove him as a precautionary measure. Still … Kingsley and Moody were more than equipped to handle that dubious pleasure, or that bumbling junior auror that Moody was training — Nymphadora Tonks. As Aurors, at least they had the resources to call in their coworkers if things should go pear-shaped. Severus had … a wand. And a Dark Mark, which should have prevented him from entering the wards anyway if they were still standing.

Severus hammered a few times on the door with his fist, ignoring the doorbell with the kind of disdain he reserved only for the most ridiculously unnecessary things.

Perhaps Albus had finally decided to stop coddling the boy and expected Severus to give him an alternate education. Perhaps he had been waiting for Potter to come of age, so he wouldn't feel guilty teaching a child dark magic — or allowing Severus to, rather. Not that Potter would willingly have him. Occlumency lessons were quite the success story after all, weren't they?

No one was coming to the door, and so he raised his fist to knock again, impatiently deciding to blow the door off its hinges if no one came after this knock. If he thought about it, he would repair it on the way out. But he wasn't left musing over it for long. His hand only made it part-way to the door before it was yanked open a crack and a short, broad man with no neck and a blue bathrobe peered out at him with squinty, suspicious eyes.

"What the ruddy hell …" The man trailed off as he paused to take in Severus' attire, his little eyes sweeping down the other man's frame with gathering horror. The hall light was on behind him, and Severus could see Harry hovering some distance behind, half-way down the stairs, his face pale and anxious like he was ready to bolt for his wand (which wasn't in his hand, the stupid boy). Had he expected Death Eaters to knock politely if they came calling? "You have the wrong house. Get off my porch, Freak."

That drew his attention. "I beg your pardon?" Though it didn't sound like he was begging. In fact, he rather sounded like he planned to make someone else beg.

"You heard. I don't want any more of your _kind _anywhere near my family." Vernon was doing his best to puff himself up, but the action wasn't entirely successful. He managed to look a little wider, but he was still a head and a half shorter than Severus … and unarmed. Mostly he looked like an indignant blueberry, if such a thing could exist. Severus felt his fingers twitch, whether subconsciously seeking his wand or itching to apply them to Vernon's bull-like neck was unclear. Meanwhile, Potter was clearly showing signs of mortification, his cheeks demonstrating that they knew how to blush several different shades of pale red in rapid succession. He looked like he was dreading something, having backed up a step or two and angling for a better view of both combatants.

"I'm here for Harry Potter. The rest of your family means little to me. _Very _little." It wasn't a very good threat — likely not obvious enough for Dursley to catch — but Harry caught it, and he looked concerned enough for both of them.

"There is no one here by that name."

Severus turned his full attention to the young wizard and raised a mocking eyebrow. "Is this true? Are you not Harry James Potter?"

The boy was so busy opening and closing his mouth that he missed his opportunity to reply. The Dursley patriarch had turned on him, spitting vitriol. "I told you to stay _put, _Boy! Now look what you've done!"

"Uncle Vernon, he's a professor from my school. He's … um … just, please let me talk to him. Only for a second." Had Severus ever heard Potter say 'please' before? Had he ever heard him sound quite that desperate? The boy's eyes were tracing the distance between the two men fearfully. Back and forth. Back and forth. It was a little disconcerting, really, to see him so off balance.

"Shut it, Boy! Look, I don't care _who _you're supposed to be, because you're leaving. Now." The man moved to close the door, but Severus was quicker, wedging a slim dragon hide boot in between the door and its frame.

"If you possessed a modicum of intelligence, you would let me in immediately. I have business to attend to with your nephew and I will not be thwarted."

"Then it will wait until term starts. I'll not have you place one toe over my threshold." Actually half his foot was technically on the threshold already, but no one pointed it out.

Severus rolled his eyes, more than frustrated enough to pull his wand on the idiot man. He noted the slight widening of Potter's eyes at the gesture, but cut him off with a viciously uttered, "_Petrificus totalis" _before the boy could so much as open his mouth to protest. Vernon teetered briefly and toppled sideways into the wall with an oddly satisfying _thunk _before hitting the floor_, _his eyes wide and staring. Severus stepped over him with the cool demeanor of someone who frequently petrified his students' muggle uncles and then stepped over them to gain entrance into their house. "Stop gawping, Potter, and go fetch your things. The Headmaster has ordered me to deliver you back to Hogwarts, where you will spend the remainder of the summer." What kind of a look was that? Hope? Disbelief? Curiosity? The boy wasted little time, whatever it was, turning to dart back up the stairs so quickly that he tripped over himself and had to put a hand down to keep his balance.

Severus followed at a more sedate pace, finding Potter's other relatives huddled together at the head of the stairs. Petunia—her hair in rollers— had her arms were wrapped around her son, who had the peculiar look of an elephant seal to him. As he came into view the elephant seal gave a startled squeak and waddled hastily off to his room, clutching his behind in a most absurd fashion and shooting Severus fearful glances over his shoulder as he went. Meanwhile, Petunia had her back against the wall and was clearly torn between trying to edge past him to see to her husband downstairs and make sure he didn't turn her son into the animal which he so resembled. Potter was at the end of the hall, opening the door to the last room, which was separated from his cousin's room by a narrow bathroom. This room had six different locks on the outside and a curious flap-like contraption at the bottom. Severus poked his toe through it experimentally when the boy wasn't looking. He had a short stint in Azkaban after the first fall of Voldemort and he thought he recognized the design, crude as this one was, and he felt his eyebrows threatening to creep up his forehead.

"Potter. Is this for food delivery?"

"Well I don't own a cat, do I?" Severus wasn't sure that made sense, but didn't care to make his ignorance known by asking. The boy held himself tensely, even as he moved around tossing things into his trunk. Severus held in a wince when the books went in, barely managing to twist the expression into a sneer instead. When the small wardrobe had been emptied, the room was suddenly bare of everything that might identify the room as Potter's except for the empty owl cage by the window, which had bars on the outside of it.

"Your owl?"

"I sent her to the Weasleys at the start of the summer." The boy's voice was muffled, as he'd just climbed under the narrow, cot-like bed. There was an odd scraping noise, then wood being set down on wood, some shuffling, then more scraping. When the boy emerged he held the unmistakable bundle of fabric—an invisibility cloak—a piece of ragged parchment and a small rucksack, into which he tipped the other two items before adding the lot to his trunk and closing the lid. "I'm ready."

Severus shrunk the trunk to the size of a matchbox and tucked it into his pocket with a toy-sized birdcage, following the boy out and watching him closely. Potter seemed determined not to look at the assortment of locks and latches on the door as he passed, as though he could keep his most hated professor from noticing too if he just denied their existence. He poked his head into the hallway before allowing the rest of him to follow, more out of habit than anything else. Petunia wasn't where they left her, and the door to the elephant seal's room was now closed. They could hear Petunia wailing downstairs and Severus figured she'd found her husband.

"Professor … is something wrong?" Potter asked him on the stairs, turning to look over his shoulder at the man. His voice was hesitant, probably expecting some kind of rebuke for asking. Severus looked into the anxious green eyes and saw concern there that should belong to someone else. He sighed, flicking his eyes briefly towards the ceiling.

"You know as much as I do, Potter. Perhaps if you quit dwaddling you could ask the Headmaster yourself."

Petunia turned watery eyes on them when they reached the foot of the stairs and huddled up like a frightened rodent, her hand frozen on Vernon's rigid cheek where she'd been patting it. Severus ignored them both, calmly stepping over the man again to reach the door. Potter edged warily around his feet instead.

"Shouldn't you —"

"It will wear off within forty eight hours. Consider it an opportunity for some much needed reflection."

Harry spared a last glance for his hapless uncle, who was staring at the pair of them them blankly, his face frozen midway through a change of expression: anger to fear. It wasn't particularly flattering. "Sorry," he mumbled to his aunt before he shuffled out. Severus closed the door on the sight with the satisfied air of a person congratulating themselves for a job well done and went ahead of Harry, certain that the boy would never move if he wasn't there to tell him to. For his part, Harry decided that Snape was either ignorant or heedless of the difficult pace he set with his longer stride, but the latter was more likely. After all, Harry had never known an ignorant Severus Snape. So he said nothing and jogged to catch up, trying to prolong the awkward silence if only to spare himself the venom.

Harry didn't ask where they were walking to and Severus didn't tell him. He wanted to know why it was Snape and not Lupin or Moody or Tonks, but he didn't ask that either. Surely the entire Order wasn't busy at the same time … unless something _had_ happened. Harry crinkled his nose unhappily at the thought, unconsciously picking up his pace to walk alongside the professor, whose cloak endeavored to tangle about his legs as though it borrowed some of it's owner's vindictiveness and aimed to trip him. He wanted to know why they weren't being more careful, weren't sticking to the shadows like he'd always been forced to do before. There was no one about, of course, but that didn't mean people weren't watching … Then he noticed how closely Snape's hand hovered to his opposite wrist and figured there was a wand hidden there. He didn't know where the man kept it, hadn't seen him put it away after he petrified Vernon. The man was a bastard, but he was a well-trained bastard, and it both unnerved and soothed Harry to see the man so watchful. They may have a target painted across their backs in neon, but at least Severus harbored no illusions about it.

When they did finally stop, it was seemingly at random because they were still standing in the middle of the deserted street. Their location didn't seem special in any way, or any different from the number of other places along the street behind them that they passed over in favor of this one. Harry looked around as though he expected to see something important. He wouldn't — the reason was invisible. They had simply reached the edge of the anti-apparation wards that formed a one hundred yard perimeter around number 4, Privet Drive. Severus reached over and clasped the boy's shoulder with his unyielding fingers, yanking him closer for the purpose of executing a side-along apparation. Harry took a breath and held it, knowing what apparation felt like and bracing himself against the unwelcome sensation of being stuffed through a channel that was too small to accommodate him. The force sucked them together and Harry found with some dismay that he could not twist away from the sharp hip which seemed determined to puncture his abdomen. And then, before he could worry much about it, he was shoved away roughly and toppling backwards into —

Sand.

For a moment, all he could feel was disbelief. There was no desert in Scotland or anywhere near it, he was sure. And yet, the ground beneath his hands was as dry and cracked and lifeless as any desert Harry might imagine. Fear twisting his gut, Harry jerked his head up to look at the man who brought them here, ready to demand an explanation, but the words died in his throat once he saw the look on the professor's face. He was staring at the scene around them, slack-jawed, too stunned to do so much as draw the wand that was right up his sleeve. It was bright here, but there didn't appear to be a sun, and there was no heat like he would expect from a desert. The air did not move and it had no scent, not of minerals or rock or the fresh odor of wild spaces. Even the sky seemed dead, lacking color or depth, though it sometimes rippled a little if one looked closely enough.

"Good afternoon."

Severus whipped around so fast that it would have impressed Harry if he hadn't been preoccupied with clambering to his feet and turning to face the owner of that voice. She was short in stature, and so pale she might have been an apparition if she weren't so solid, with large silver eyes and long, silvery tresses pulled back in the style one might find on a coin from ancient Greece, and it gave the vague impression of being insubstantial. Her clothes too were white, elegant, but simple — an ancient Greek style peplos and himation. She was very pretty in an eerie way, in a way that wasn't quite human and wasn't quite touchable—she was simultaneously the most gorgeous thing he ever laid eyes on and the most terrifying. Beneath the layers of cloth, her bare feet didn't quite touch the ground enough to bear her weight, but the tips of her bare toes brushed it. Harry stared at them helplessly, wondering.

"Is this what you seek, Severus Snape?" She held each hand so her palms faced the sky and a wand appeared in each, hovering an inch or so above her skin with the tips pointing upward. Harry noted that Severus went very still and Harry recognized instantly that one of the wands was his own … even though his had been in his trunk when they left, shrunken with the rest of his belongings. He wasn't as familiar with the other, but judging by Snape's reaction it had to be his.

"When did you get those?" The man's tone was clipped with tension and furious.

"I've always had them," she answered simply, smiling benevolently at the resulting look on his face. "It's true. I do not lie."

"That's the _stupidest_ thing I've ever heard." Harry looked to Severus for confirmation, as though he expected the man to back him up for once in his life, unlikely as it was. His expression was closed, but his mind was whirling. It had to be whirling. Harry's was.

"My, Harry Potter, you must have heard a lot of stupid things."

Snape snorted quietly, and even if there was no humor in it Harry refused to give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment. The older man didn't seem willing to ask her anything else, content as he was to stand back and wait for the truth to reveal itself. Harry figured it must be the spy in him and deemed it necessary to do the questioning himself.

"Where is this?" Harry's voice quavered, though the reason behind it was unclear. It might have been fear, or frustration, or the remains of an adrenaline high. "And what are you?"

"That's very perceptive of you, Harry Potter, for indeed I am a 'what' and not a 'who.' Although what I am precisely is something I doubt you could understand." She raised a hand to stop the angry retort before it could exist. "As for where we are. This is the Wasteland, and I am its creator."

Harry wrinkled his nose. "Could use a little work."

"Potter!" Severus hissed, taking a step towards the boy before stopping himself. He ran a hand through his lank hair and held it clenched in a fist behind his head, pulling on it sharply. "If you get us killed because of your stupid —"

"I wasn't the one who apparated us here, was I?"

"I've been apparating to Hogwarts for longer than you've been alive, Boy," Severus snarled. "I _know _the coordinates, and there was no mistake."

"Your Professor is correct, Harry Potter. The coordinates he apparated to were the correct ones … or would have been if I hadn't interfered. I do apologize for startling you both." The girl's voice was placid and lilting … a lot like Luna's was actually. And by the sound of it she was just as barmy.

"Why would you bring us here? Do you work for Voldemort?" This came from Harry, who was looking at her so defiantly that Severus actually worried about her reaction to his rudeness, though he needn't have. The young woman only smiled. It was genuine, but definitely held its secrets.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you why you both are here without giving away the answer you need to find for yourself. No, I don't do favors for your Voldemort." Harry wrinkled his nose at the idea of Voldemort being _his._ "For you, he doesn't exist anymore … nor does Hogwarts or magic or the planet Earth for now. I can reconstruct it and return you to your proper place and time, but first you need to tell me something." The girl focused completely on Harry then, pinning him with an unblinking stare. "Your professor said something important to you right after you left your muggle relative's house. Can you remember it?—No? Too bad. That memory is your only chance, the last shred of hope you have of leaving the Wastelend. Else you'll wander here forever."

"No, that's impossible!" Harry waved his hands as though he were trying to signal an aircraft. "It's impossible. We were completely silent until we got here!"

"He is correct. I'm sure I didn't say anything."

The woman was beginning to look amused. "I assure you, you did. You're still thinking of existence as a linear thing, something that is set in stone once it has already been experienced. You may not recall saying anything, but right now you were never there at all. It hasn't happened yet, and at the same time it has already happened, because I know how this will end. What you will say and what you said are one in the same in this place."

"I don't understand." Harry's voice was approaching plaintive, and Severus sincerely hoped it wouldn't graduate to hysterical. He never did know how to deal with hysterics.

"You don't need to understand for it to be true. Remember your task and you will come out of this with something you didn't have before. Call it a gift."

Potter was shaking his head, doing what the mind did best when it failed to fully understand something terrifying. "This isn't real."

"I know you don't believe that, Harry Potter. Your professor does though. I can see him thinking it as we speak. He is trying to unravel the magic behind this and dispel the illusion. He has known too much treachery in his lifetime to accept things exactly as they are. But I promise you both that right now this is the only thing that is or ever has been real. For now the rest is all in your heads. I'll be around."

And they were alone.

* * *

- to be continued -


	2. Breeding lilacs out of the dead land

**Author's Note:**

My lovely betta is currently unavailable, but I wanted to go ahead and post this anyway because I'm impatient that way. I'll come back and make corrections once Amanda has a look. In the meantime, I apologize for any glaringly obvious errors.

* * *

_Out of The Dead Land_

**Two**

"Get up, Potter. You're wasting time."

That was odd, wasn't it? Harry blinked a question at his knees. _When did you hit the ground, Knees? _

"What are we late for, Snape?" His voice sounded strange to him, and he'd seen the look that Snape was giving him before. Harry bequeathed it often on Luna Lovegood. Instead of addressing it as he probably should have, Harry leaned back on one hand made a lazy sweeping gesture with his other. "There's no place to be." And it was true. A line of bleak-looking hills broke up the horizon line, but they didn't hold much promise. The landscape was eerily devoid of life, even of the sparse, tenacious organisms that couldn't be driven from normal deserts. _This_ place was bare of all things but the hardened, thirsty earth beneath them, which was crumbling to pieces for want of water. It's parched fissures unfurled like a web belonging to an alcoholic spider, and the hills that hemmed them in were red and burnt-looking.

"Pull yourself together, Potter. The insanity look doesn't become you." Severus occupied himself with the business of observation, his eyes sharp and calculating. It reminded Harry of a tiger he'd seen at the zoo when he went for his cousin's birthday, pacing its cage and waiting for someone to make a mistake. He looked very calm to Harry, and he wondered if Snape was in shock too. "You may be accustomed to getting your way at Hogwarts, but this place, wherever it is, doesn't appear to be in awe of your dubious heroism."

Harry's face darkened, but he turned away, pressing his lips into a thin line to keep the messy words from spilling out. It should have been difficult, had always been difficult. But he was reeling then, wavering uncertainly between the things he knew and the things he saw, unable to reconcile them. There was something corrosive about The Wasteland that worked beyond the obvious and the physical. It picked away at the spirit on some fundamental level and left a brittle ache behind as a reminder of its passing. It occurred to Harry that it might be intentional, that the landscape was more carefully constructed than they thought, but he didn't say anything to Snape about it because he wasn't sure what words to use.

Looking up made him feel like he was sitting on the bottom of a deep lake, watching light play off the surface above. He swore that he could feel the weight of that dead atmosphere and all it's dead atoms condensing around him like gallons on gallons of water. _Water is heavier than you might expect, you know._ Harry filled his lungs and held the air in them, just to be sure that he still could—then he realized that Snape was still there and peeked over at him to make sure he hadn't seen Harry being stupid. The last thing he needed was for Snape to think he was looney on top of everything else.

But he hadn't seen.

Snape was gathering data, being useful, first by delicately touching his tongue to a finger and holding it out, then by kneeling to press that finger into the ground at his feet. Whatever he saw elicited a frown—a familiar line of concentration pinned between tensed brows. He gathered a handful of dust as though he meant to inspect that too, but he froze with a closed fist hanging in the air. Looking confused for the first time Harry had ever known, he turned his hand over and opened it, releasing ... Nothing. Harry forgot to be morose in favor of staring, and allowed his eyes to catch on the professor's when the man sought them out.

"I'm afraid I can't explain this." Snape was staring at his empty hand as though he couldn't bear to look away, and his voice had gone distant like Harry's. Harry wondered if shock could be contagious like the wizard's flu, and whether one could innoculate. It seemed worth looking into anyway. "I'm not sure this world entirely exists. There are too many details missing."

"Professor ..." Harry spoke slowly, fishing around in his brain for the words he needed even as he spoke them. "If a place doesn't exist, how is it possible for people who do exist be there?" His voice was low and pleading because he wanted to stop thinking. The more he thought about it the more unpleasant it was, and his brain already felt rubbery and delicate ... like taffy stretched too thin.

Severus regarded him with a put-upon sigh, wondering what the likelihood was of making his explanation idiot-proof. "I said this place doesn't _entirely _exist, not that it doesn't exist at all. Even with magic, you can not create something from nothing, so she had to pull the elements of this place together from pre-existing sources. _Those_ elements do very much exist. However, the final product is static. There is no life here, and certainly no ecosystem. The sun is probably absent because this world isn't large enough to contain one, not even a small replica." He imitated Harry and raised his head to examine the sky, his eyebrows high on his forehead in a position that looked an awful lot like concern. Harry looked away quickly, not wanting to see it.

"If The Wasteland doesn't completely exist, shouldn't there be some kind of," Harry made a small helpless gesture, "out?"

"A place doesn't have to fully exist to serve as a container. Our captor said herself that the purpose of this construction is to keep us here. However it was made, this locatiom is equipped with the bare minimum—the illusion of oxygen, of gravity, of scenery. Perhaps we are lucky we aren't floating in a void. As it is, _if_ the sole purpose of The Wasteland's existence is to serve as a prison I see no reason why we would be able to find an 'out' … as you so eloquently dubbed it, especially since the rules we are accustomed to clearly don't exist here."

"So all that we can do is play her game and hope we're entertaining? You know as well as I do that there's no answer to that question, so we'd better start finding some other way home because _that _isn't it." Harry could feel the anger trying to rise beneath his skin, trying to shield that helpless feeling that threatened to swallow him. He was teetering on the edge of hysteria and the only thing that kept him from succumbing entirely was the knowledge that Snape would be there to witness it.

The man in question only looked at him for a moment down his generous nose, then turned on his heel and headed for the hills in the distance. They looked flat and unreal, like they'd been clipped from a magazine and pasted to the horizon. They also looked very far away. Harry turned his attention to the place where Snape's boots had been firmly planted, certain there should be some kind of mark in the dust from where his heel made its famous pivot. But there was no indication that anyone ever stood there at all. Possessed by the notion, Harry bent his fingers into a claw-like shape and dug them into the earth, bearing down hard enough to make his hand quiver—enough to make five brand new fissures. But there was nothing. Not even a grain of dust caught beneath his fingernail.

Harry wondered if they'd gone mad.

His dread was the sort that slinks across the heart and settles there, establishing itself with such painstaking care that it overwhelms almost gently. Tenderly. But Snape was striding away with that single-minded tread he used in school corridors when he spat discipline at unsuspecting students and something in Harry's stomach jolted as it occurred to him that he was being left behind. He scrambled hastily to his feet and set off at a sprint, not wanting to be alone in this miserable place—even if by doing so he was choosing Snape's company instead. With the part of his brain that wasn't angry, terrified, confused, or otherwise occupied with less pleasant emotions, he noted that his footfalls weren't making any sound. He could hear his pulse as it adjusted, could feel his heart throw off the cobwebs of inactivity and rally for him, but the counterpoint of pounding feet was missing. He had the strangest suspicion (which he hastily thrust away) that he could fall right through the bottom of that crazy world, that there was nothing at all beneath his feet really, and he was torn between watching Snape—afraid he would vanish—and the ground—afraid _it _would vanish.

"Damn it, Snape, where are you going?" He asked because talking made the silence less unnerving, not because it wasn't perfectly obvious.

"Don't think I'm not keeping track of your language, Potter. When we get back to Hogwarts I'll see to it that points are deducted accordingly. So far that's ten. I have no intention of sleeping out in the open, so I am going to investigate the nature of those rock formations." Snape's voice was mild, approaching business-like pleasantry, and Harry narrowed hie eyes at the space between his pointy shoulder blades, instantly suspicious. Veiled or unveiled, he wished he could see his companion's (or whatever he was) expression, but there was no way to go about it casually and Snape would undoubtedly see right through any attempt at subtlety.

There was something he knew, a line or two of verse that he couldn't place and a writer whose name he couldn't recall. It came from one of Dudley's discarded books—one with a cracked spine and a missing cover, with pages crumpled and stained from various abuses (and not the kind that came with being well-loved). It tickled the back of his mind like an itch that wouldn't go away. _The Wasteland, April, winter. The Wasteland. The Wasteland—_

"Professor … I dunno if it's something you need to know, but there's a muggle poem—"

"I'm not unaware of it, Potter." His tone hadn't changed much, unless growing more bored-sounding could count as a change. The wrongness of the entire thing had Harry on edge, and he didn't realize how tense he was until one of the muscles in his shoulder spasmed a protest. Harry could only wait for the other shoe to drop, for the ulterior motive to be revealed. For something. Anything. From this man, Harry knew anger. He knew shouting and unpleasantry and if he closed his eyes he could clearly see the details of his face twisted up in irritation or scorn or sometimes disgust. Bitterness. Bias. Harry's lips twisted into a humorless smile at the realization that he was more uncomfortable with a companionable Snape than a hateful one.

"So … you've heard of that one then?" Wasn't that cute? Harry was as timid as a first year Hufflepuff on his first day of potions class. He winced at the back of Snape's skull, wondering how it was possible to be so intimidating with your back turned.

"I'm rather more surprised that you have." In that dead tone, it wasn't clear whether it was an insult or a merely statement of fact.

"Well, um … if you were thinking about it too, then maybe there's something important—a clue—and it's just that I've been trying to remember the words."

"Trying to get me to recite poetry to you, Potter?" Still nothing. Harry gritted his teeth against the agitation, thinking that clearly Snape would have to act out of character on the one occasion that Harry least wanted him to. The circumstances they found themselves in were unusual enough without adding more to them. And wasn't that just like Snape? He _would_ be as difficult as possible, even when he didn't necessarily intend to be.

Harry made a frustrated-sounding noise. "It may help us get out."

"It won't. The only lines that are anything like our situation are descriptive, and those don't match up closely enough to be anything more than coincidence."

"But can't you still—"

"It _won't, _Boy." The reprimand was a little on the sharp side, but still duller than it could have been. Harry's sigh was heavy, and the silence was heavier, so thick that it pressed against the eardrums. Harry was reminded of his lake, and risked a quick peek at the sky. He hadn't been swimming in a while, but the last time his head was beneath the water it was a lot like this, with the unearthly stillness and pressure on the ears. Red iron hills inched closer, and Harry mostly kept his eyes down because otherwise he would start to imagine a bottomless world. In his periphery, Harry saw that Snape kept his eyes rigidly forward and only spared a glance every so often for his feet (so quickly it was almost like it never happened), almost as if he too were discomfited by the half-formed ground.

In the end, it was probably the disturbing silence more than Harry's persuasiveness that prompted a recitation. One didn't notice the little sounds of everyday life—of reality—until they were conspicuously absent.

"April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers."

"Those are the pertinent lines. Yes, the poem is called 'The Wasteland,' but this particular wasteland could share the same name because that's just what this is."

"_Or _it could be a hint."

Snape rolled his eyes, but his manner was that of a person making a calm, logical argument. "I would call this place Hell, but I doubt it's related in any way to 'Dante's Inferno.'"

"It might be if she chose that poem instead," said Harry peevishly. He was getting tired of this artificially toned-down Snape. "Don't dismiss it just because it was my idea."

"As you wish. What parallels are there between the poem and this Wasteland?"

"I—er," Harry looked around quickly, feeling very much like an unprepared student being placed on the chopping block. "I'd hoped you would help. I just thought it might mean something." When he heard a soft snort from in front of him, he scowled, defensive. "I don't know some of the references. Like … what do lilacs symbolize, for example?"

"Nothing that has anything to do with us." Snape sounded unaccountably amused by that.

"You aren't going to tell me?"

"If you don't know … then no."

There was no conversation for a long time after that.

"I'd forgotten about the lilacs," Harry admitted quietly—almost to himself—when the silence grew uncomfortable again. "It's almost too bad the crazy bint _wasn't_ working off the poem, or this place might be a little less—_AGH!_"

Severus jumped, turning a tight circle with a spell already on his lips and a hand half-way up his sleeve for a wand that wasn't there. He froze like that, his wide eyes scanning the scene before him with disbelief adding a touch of interest to his shock. Potter's hands were clamped protectively over his nose so the only visible part of his face were his glaring eyes. He faced a large, tree-like shrub that hadn't been there before, with a narrow, but sturdy-looking trunk and branches heavily laden with purple flowers. One didn't have to be a master of logical deduction (which Severus was, conveniently enough) to conclude that the tree must have sprung up in Potter's path just in time for a direct collision—a painful one, judging by the words that were spewing indiscriminately from his mouth.

Severus found a smirk in him somewhere and hid behind it. "That's sixty points from Gryffindor now, Potter, and I'll take another five for that word you just made up."

Harry ignored him. "I don't understand. What the hell_ is_ this?"

"Seventy-five. It appears to be a flowering representative of the kingdom Plantae, Potter. Lilac if I'm not mistaken."

"I can see that it's a plant, _Snape," _Harry snapped. In another reality he might have worried about the tone he took, but in this one he was nearly cross-eyed with pain and flushed with humiliation and so very, very clearly _not _in the mood that Snape almost had it coming to him, authoritative figure or not. "I meant to ask what in the seven bloody hells it thinks it's doing leaping out of the ground and assaulting my face!"

But on some level Snape must have been as distracted as he, for he only offered a bland "Ninety-five" and set about inspecting the lilacs, which didn't move an inch, not to leap or otherwise. Except for the fact that it didn't seem to have a scent and stood as unmoving as a statue the thing actually looked quite innocent. "Our friend seems to have a sense of humor."

"Well ha _bloody _ha." Potter delivered a swift kick to the trunk of the tree and sidestepped it neatly, moving cautiously towards Snape as though he expected another to spring up and give him a black eye or two to compliment his nose if he walked too fast.

"One hundred and five. I don't see why you're so upset." There was a bit of a warning behind his words which even Harry heard clearly. "You're lucky it's humor she has and not malice. She could have speared you with it. Get over here and show me your nose."

Harry took one step closer and let his hand fall, looking as though he dreaded the pronouncement of his condition.

"There isn't even any blood. You should be grateful that your nose is just as consistently hard as the rest of your head." He was looking up, reaching to feel one of the individual petals in a gesture that almost looked tender—that is, until he plucked the bloom with an efficient twitch of his wrist. The entire thing collapsed into dust in his hand and he let it fall, looking mildly disgusted. Harry saw him toss organs into cauldrons on a regular enough basis to assume that the disgust was aimed at some inward conclusion or another and he didn't ask what it was for fear that Snape might actually tell him.

"It isn't real." Harry didn't sound surprised. Actually, he didn't sound anything at all, but Snape wasn't keeping track. He just made an _it figures _noise and gestured for them to move on.

They did move on, but not really. It was much quieter after Harry's run-in with the lilacs and both minds dwelled on them. Harry's half of the silence was part of his effort to ignore how wrong this world was, as though it might stop bothering him if he could pretend for long enough that it didn't. And Snape's silence? He didn't know about Snape's, but didn't think the man would be inclined to conversation unless Harry initiated it. If Harry spoke first, he could pretend just like Harry was pretending. And anyway, Snape's expression was gradually growing darker, like a gathering storm, so it was probably a bad idea to talk just then anyway. The closer they came to the hills the deeper into his brooding he fell, until his dark eyes were burning hot enough to scald. Harry flinched when they turned on him.

"What, Potter?" But the voice was the same, as though he spoke from behind himself.

"Huh?"

"You've been staring at me for the past several minutes."

_I've been waiting for you to erupt into a fountain of lava and pyroclastic debris. _"Oh. Erm … I was just thinking … Maybe we should have marked our starting point somehow … To see if we're even going anywhere, I mean."

"I know what you mean, Potter." Snape shot him a withering look. "What item of clothing were you willing to part with then? Hm?" His eyes scrolled pointedly down the length of Harry's body, from neck to toe, until Harry squirmed awkwardly under his scrutiny. "Because we don't have anything else, and _I _won't be prancing around half-naked, especially in the company of a lady. And by that I do not mean you."

"She's a sadistic weirdo!"

"And yet she still has a uterus."

"As far as you know," Harry grumbled.

"Stop being a fool." And if Snape's voice was a little colder Harry didn't think much of it, as he always measured that voice in varying degrees of frigid. "If she sends something nastier than a plant after you I won't stand in her way. Humor aside, she obviously didn't appreciate being called a 'bint,' and aspersions against her gender and sexual normalcy probably won't make her any fonder of you. In all honesty I admit that I may find it difficult to blame her as such if she did resort to maiming you—but then, you never did think much of those who could crush you like a pill bug, did you?"

Harry could have left it there, had he wanted. He was too depleted to be angry, and he didn't care much for talk of maiming anyway. But he didn't want to leave it. If he backed down there would be silence again, and pushing Snape's buttons was infinitely preferable to such discomfort. And maybe if he got angry he would stop being so freakishly agreeable. He could go back to being caustic, predictable, dependably undependable Snape.

The idea really shouldn't have pleased him like it did.

And so he chose his next words specifically for their explosive potential, figuring there must be a special place in hell reserved for people who enjoyed getting Snape frothing mad. "Well, Voldemort has mostly disappointed me so far." Harry saw him flinch and wondered if he could work the name 'Voldemort' into a few more sentences without being obvious about it. "Yeah, Voldemort likes sending all these crazy people after me too. First there's Voldemort himself, then there's Voldemort's favorite ex-member of the Black family and baby Crouch, then there's _this_ bitch, who says she doesn't work for Voldemort, but really there's no way to know—"

With terrifying, inhuman speed, Severus snatched two bunches of tatty, oversized shirt in his hands and jerked Harry towards him, a low growl trying to form somewhere in the back of his throat. He'd gone very pale—as pale as a face like his could go anyway—except for the twin blotches of color on his cheekbones. The product of his rage. Harry, who had never seen Snape so flustered that his face started changing colors, figured that he must be more furious than normal and he was surprised (and maybe a little disappointed) that he was so easily needled. "Shut _up, _you brainless little urchin! You have _no idea _what you're playing with and I don't intend to let your thoughtlessness damn me right along with you. Do you comprehend what I'm saying?"

Something in Harry felt loose and giddy and maybe a little drunk, pulse too quick, chin too high, gazing at Snape with something like grim satisfaction. He patted the man's hand in what he hoped was an infuriating fashion. "She _is _a bitch. She yanked us out of our own lives without so much as a by-your-leave and basically told us that we could never go home again. Don't you want to go home, Snape, or does this trump your dungeons?"

Snape leaned in, so close that Harry could feel the tickle of warm breath on his forehead when he spoke, and their gazes met like a collision. Where Snape's eyes were practically incendiary, Harry's were wet and he didn't know why, couldn't guess why. _Harry, don't you know yourself?_ "I can't imagine what you think you know about me, but I do wish to return home, and if you prevent me in any way from doing so I will make your eternity here as _miserable_ as I can manage." He delivered a single shake—brief, but vicious—and thrust Harry away, sneering when he staggered. "Do not. Follow me." He said it needlessly, because Harry was making no effort to follow. He stood blankly, tears he had no explanation for gathering at the corners of his eyes. But they never fell. In its own abstract way, The Wasteland rejected even that tiny offering of moisture.

Severus didn't intend to leave the boy entirely. Too much was riding on his ability to answer that thrice-damned riddle, and he wasn't keen on wandering The Wasteland alone for all eternity simply because he couldn't abide one obnoxious presence for a little while longer. No, he knew that he would either circle around or allow the boy to come to him—he just didn't plan on making it easy for him to do so. He turned to the left of their original route, keeping the red hills parallel to him on the right. Severus could still feel the brat's eyes boring into the space between his shoulder blades and forced himself not to look back, not even to glare. It was difficult. Potter always got under his skin, had always been under his skin—elder and younger, it didn't make much difference. Though their techniques were different, the Potters never knew how to leave him well enough alone, even this one who seemed to know by instinct how to draw a reaction from him.

Severus ground his teeth together and firmly resolved not to behave in such away again. Such things were counter-productive, he reasoned. He'd been making an effort at toleration, hoping Potter might follow his example and try to make this whole ordeal less traumatic than it had to be. Severus fisted his hands in his robes to prevent his fingernails from biting into his skin and looked determinedly at that wretched sky, trying to think of other things. He needed to understand The Wasteland before he could decide if they were truly stuck or not—though without magic at their disposal their options were frightfully limited. He hadn't told Potter so, but he'd attempted wandless magic—an accio. Not only did his wand not come, but he also didn't feel his magic respond, didn't feel anything at all. She had taken their wands, but really it didn't matter, did it, when they were in a magical dead zone? His eyes narrowed determinedly in thought, prepared to think it over all day if he had to.

And then the ground dropped out from under him.

* * *

- to be continued -


End file.
